


Mami

by yeaka



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 16:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir works in the kitchens.





	Mami

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Inspired by Alexandra Stan’s new music video.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The kitchens feel as hot as the oven, and Lindir has to pause amidst dicing up the peppers to gather his hair atop his head. He secures it in a somewhat messy bun, too derelict for public, but it should do here, where he stands only amongst other servants. Most of them already wear their long tresses in tightly wound braids, but Lindir hadn’t meant to cook today, and he came wholly unprepared. More so than a fear of his hair falling into the thick sauce bubbling at the stove, Lindir finds the extra bulk more than he can bear in the summer heat. He sweats as he finishes his chopping, but so does all of the kitchen staff.

The peppers slide into the sauce, and Lindir stirs them in with tender care. As he works, the minstrels strum their harps and foreign instruments outside in the gardens, and the exotic rhythm they bring entices him beyond words. He needs to learn from them, and plans to, when next he has a moment to himself. But now he’s found himself a new task for his off-hours: these wood-dwelling elves brought with them the raw makings of new cuisine: _pasta_ , as they call it. Their own traveling cooks prepared a feast of it on their first arrival. And last night’s banquet was quite scrumptious, and yet not _perfect_ , and all Lindir could think as he sampled the many elaborate dishes was that he could, perhaps, do _better_.

More importantly, his lord seemed to enjoy the food. Yet there was a certain restraint in the way he thanked the chefs—a quiet reservation that few but his loyal attendant would ever realize. Lindir has spent too many years in utter adoration of his lord to miss such nuances. Lord Elrond deserves _only the best_ , and Lindir, having learned well what tastes appeal to his lord and which don’t, intends to deliver.

So he works at his own little station in the sprawling kitchens, wooden spoon sliding though the thickening broth and lithe hips beginning to sway with the lilting music. Its beat is sharp, yet strangely smooth, unexpected and almost _spicy_ , if music could be said to sound so. It fits the weather well: matches the broiling heat that licks at Lindir’s skin. He wore his lightest robes, and still he finds his breathing heavy, his collarbone growling faintly damp beneath the fabric. He has half a mind to roll up his long sleeves. It would make his stirring less stiff. But that would be so _improper_. And though Lindir gives way to a light dancing as he works, he means to maintain his dignity.

On a whim, another two herbs are added to the sauce, and now as Lindir stirs them in, his mind begins to drift. His eyes don’t quite fall closed, but they do lower, lulled by the mood around him and the familiarity of his motions. Behind them, he pictures ahead to tonight’s feast, where he plans to serve his lord himself, and revel in the first bite that Elrond brings between his handsome lips. Lindir can too easily picture the pasta twirling around Elrond’s fork and the rise of it to his open mouth. He would sample only a small bite at first, patient and polite, but even that first bite might rouse him to smile, and cast Lindir a knowing look of warm appreciation. And Lindir would _melt_ , because he _lives_ to make his lord Elrond smile.

And it would be worth it, too, to stand behind Elrond during the evening meal, and watch his pink tongue swipe away stray bits of sauce. It would be his favourite part of the main course, Lindir is sure, better even than dessert, and he would finish his plate, swallowing every last bite, maybe even bringing up his fingers when all was said and done to lap away the lingering remains—

He wouldn’t do that, of course. Lord Elrond would _never_ be so filthy. But Lindir shivers anyway as the mental image dances in his mind. If only Lord Elrond were here now to taste test for him, to dip one long digit down into the sauce then to lick it clean. But of course, if he were in the kitchens, dressed in a lord’s thick, expensive robes, the sweat would bead along his forehead and drizzle down his throat, and Lindir would long to strip away his clothes and mouth at the rivulets that slicked down his lightly panting chest—

Something tickles his cheek, and Lindir turns to spot the dark hair draping down over it as a handsome face leans over his shoulder. Lord Elrond peers thoughtfully down at the pan Lindir’s stirring, though Lindir freezes when he realizes just how close his lord’s gotten to him. His hips still as well, though the sensual rhythm rolls on. The heat of Elrond’s body suddenly seems to surround Lindir, fanning his own fire tenfold. Elrond asks him obliviously, “What ever are you making, Lindir? I did not know that cooking was amongst your many skills.”

It isn’t. He only tries to, and even then, only for the man he loves. He answers, squeaking in his embarrassment, “Sauce for tonight’s dinner.”

“How delightful,” Elrond murmurs. Then he lifts his gentle gaze to Lindir’s flushed face, “I am sorry to tear you away from such gracious actions, but there seems to be some trouble with the housing arrangements of our guests, and I had hoped to have your assistance in my office at your next convenience.”

Lindir opens his mouth, closes it, then manages, “I will be right there.”

Elrond lifts a brow, glancing at the sauce, but Lindir swiftly pulls the pan off the stove. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do next to it anyway, and while serving Elrond at mealtime did seem a tempting prospect, his regular duties to his lord are far more important. 

Elrond tells him kindly, “Do not rush. I will wait.” And then he dips his head in parting and leaves, before Lindir can pull of a proper bow. He wants to rush right after Elrond, hurry up the stairs, and leave the kitchen staff to attend to his aborted mess.

But he cleans his station first, now sparing no time for dance or daydreams, and _then_ hurries after his heart.


End file.
